


Warg

by Jennie_D



Series: Becoming New [10]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Also There is Some Grossness Here, Animal Death, Animal Sacrifice, As in Jon Eats Some Raw Meat, How Do I Tag, M/M, Misunderstandings, Old Gods Rituals and Blood and Such, Pre-Relationship, They Fight a Little But Make Up, Warg Jon Snow, Wildling Jon Snow, Wildlings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-09-28 04:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20419763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennie_D/pseuds/Jennie_D
Summary: The wolf raced through the dark forest, paws crunching in fresh fallen snow. The stars were fading in the sky, but the night was still alive. Alive with a thousand scents, with pine and dirt and prey burrowed in the ground.The man woke slowly, softly. He lie content in the space between wakefulness and dreaming, his curls tangled around him, rich taste of meat between his teeth.





	1. Chapter 1

_The white wolf raced through the dark forest, paws crunching in fresh fallen snow. The stars were fading in the sky, but the night was still alive. Alive with a thousand scents, with pine and dirt and prey burrowed in the ground._

_The wolf followed this last trail, followed fur and claws and a tiny beating heart, and brought his teeth down with a snap. Hot blood poured into his mouth, and the wolf was satisfied as he lay on the ground and tore apart his kill._

_A twig snapped and the wolf turned. He found a familiar scent on the air. A scent that pushed the wolf back to four paws._

_There was a man hunting rabbits on the horizon, a man as wild as the wood itself, a man who was his, and the wolf bound forward to greet him with joy. There was the sound of laughter, and a rough hand behind his ears, and the wolf led the way homeward._

* * *

The man woke slowly, softly. He rubbed his face into his sleeping furs, inhaling ancient lingering scents; elk and deer and bearskin.

He lie content in the space between wakefulness and dreaming, his curls tangled around him, rich taste of meat between his teeth.

He heard the pad of four light paws on the ground and the heavy march of two boots. A small smile came to the man’s lips. Cold air washed over his face. Without opening his eyes, the man lifted a hand to greet the wolf. Skin met fur, and they were nuzzling into each other, sharing the same breath.

There was a snort from above them. “That wolf’s muzzle is covered with blood, you’re getting your face all dirty.”

The man just hummed and just leaned into the wolf’s warmth. He wanted to lie lingering in the dream, live there as long as he could.

A piece of cloth hit him in the face.

“Seven hells Tormund,” Jon groaned, stretching.

“Use that to clean yourself with. I don’t want you to get some mad disease from whatever that wolf of yours just killed.”

Jon groaned again, but swiped the rag across his chin and cheeks. He blinked his eyes open and looked blearily around the tent. The first rays of the sun were filtering through. Ghost was lying next to Jon, bloody and pleased. And Tormund sat on the other side of the tent, chopping at something Jon couldn’t quite see. But the scent of it stung at Jon’s nose.

“Woke up early, so I got us some breakfast,” Tormund said, his eyes tired.

Jon stretched again, then leant down to scratch Ghost behind the ears. “Thank you. Rabbit’s always good in the morning.”

The sound of Tormund’s knife stopped suddenly. Jon glanced over at him. He had stopped chopping and was looking at Jon oddly.

Jon was about to ask if something was wrong, but Tormund shook himself and returned to his work.

The sleeping furs were comforting, and Ghost was still warm at his side. But the memory of the dream was fast becoming faded in the daylight. Jon ruffled Ghost’s fur one last time, then stood and ambled over to help prepare breakfast.

Tormund handed him a rabbit to break down and Jon picked up a knife. Viscera soaked his hands as he worked. Jon absently brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked on raw blood.

* * *

The longer Jon traveled with the Free Folk, the more he felt that something was cracking open within him. Something he couldn’t put a name to. Something that had fled long ago, when a knife pierced his heart and he became nothing. 

Jon still had nightmares, dreams where he smelled the burning of a hundred thousand bodies, where blonde hair and bloody lips stared coldly up at him. These dreams would chase him back to the waking world, gasping for air.

But he had other dreams now too, dreams of wolves. Dreams that felt like comfort and his long ended childhood. Remembering the details was like trying to catch snowflakes with his hands, but Jon knew the dreams made him feel safe. Those dreams were the only reason Jon found any sleep at all.

Jon didn't know where the dreams came from. He put it down partially to being back beyond the Wall.

There was, after all, an odd nostalgia to traveling in these lands with the Free Folk. Memories of time spent with them before, with Ygritte and Tormund and the rest, had kept Jon warm on many cold nights. Yes, he’d been afraid of being caught as a Crow and constantly annoyed by Orell and terrified of White Walkers. But he’d also had some of the best moments of his adulthood here. Despite the guilt and melancholy that now lived in his bones, there was something soothing about walking these lands again. Made him feel comforted.

That, and the fact that Ghost was at his side.

Jon clung closer to Ghost now than he ever had before. He’d always drawn comfort from the beast, especially in those first cold hard days at the Wall. Then, the pup’s affection had been all that kept him going. But he’d been limited by the rules of the Watch, often forced to kennel him during evenings and meals.

And these last few years, when the North had made him a King, Jon had distanced himself from Ghost. For Jon had worried, constantly, about not being enough. Not being enough to live up to Father, to Robb. To their memories that towered in the North. Towered in his own mind. Jon knew his kingship was based on those memories, not on his own deeds. The Lords had chosen him, chosen this bastard, because they saw a faint shadow of Stark in him. And so he needed to be that. Be great the way his family had been. So he could rally people to fight the ancient enemy. So he could keep Sansa, Arya, Bran safe.

And he had worried how the people he led would see Ghost.

He’d known what the northern Lords would say of a boy who over-relied on the comfort of an animal. Known they’d find it weak. Known they’d say he was a child in need of a pet to calm him. Ghost was no pet, but they would not understand.

Worse still, there were older Houses, Houses that remembered the old tales and held them true, who might have looked at Ghost and Jon and thought of ancient monsters who could change their skins. Monsters who were more beast than man. Jon needed to be trusted, above suspicion. There had already been too many whispers about dark magic and death and resurrection. About how much of the Wildlings the bastard King had let into his heart.

And when Jon discovered he was not Ned Stark’s son by blood, discovered he was born in the south, was the son of an enemy, had killed his own mother on the birthing bed...he felt unworthy of the wolf. Unworthy of this gift given to him by his father. This symbol of House Stark.

So he pushed Ghost away. Because he needed to be a King but felt like a pretender, needed to be a Stark but felt he didn’t deserve to be. He’d pushed Ghost away and tried to set him free in the true north, where he belonged. With Tormund.

Jon knew now, with every bit of himself, that it had been a grave mistake to leave him. He should have stayed with Ghost. Should have kept him close. Always. They needed each other. If Jon had stayed by Ghost’s side, he never would have gone south, never would have done those terrible things, _never would have become such a -_

He would never make that mistake again. He clung to Ghost now. The Free Folk had no pens to lock the wolf in, would not judge him as a child for sharing Ghost’s warmth, would not think him a monster.

Jon was no King now. Had no crown or name to uphold. He was just himself, just Jon, and could do as he pleased. Could do what he wanted.

And what he wanted was to spend as much time with Ghost as possible.

During the day as they journeyed, Ghost would walk by Jon’s side, and Jon would drift absent hands through his fur. In the evenings, Ghost would curl around him as he sat by the fire. Jon would lean against the wolf, using the warmth to soothe his tired muscles. They played fetch together, hunted together, ate together, often slept side by side at night. Sometimes Ghost would roll through the snow, tongue lolling from his mouth, and Jon would lay beside him and smile and share in the sheer joy of the moment.

Jon had faced so much horror in the past year. Past several years. He couldn’t put it into words, didn’t know how to describe what had happened to anyone. Every time he tried, he felt like a monster.

But with Ghost, there was no pressure to speak. Just simple comfort.

Most of all there were the dreams, dreams of wood and scent and prey, that gave Jon comfort at night.

It was hard to describe the feeling of _home_ that these dreams, that Ghost, inspired in Jon. Everything about the wolf, the warmth of his fur, the steadiness of his eyes, the comforting smell of him, gave Jon peace.

Jon was pleased to see Tormund and Ghost had grown fond of each other. Tormund was always giving the wolf tasty bloody bits from the animals he shot, would smile fondly as he watched Jon and Ghost play together, would happily cuddle up beside them at night.

But sometimes when Jon woke from dreams of primeval scents and moonlit forests, he would see concern written across Tormund’s features.

* * *

Once while Jon still lazed in their sleeping furs, Tormund had carded a hand through Jon’s hair. Jon had leaned, nuzzled into the touch with a needy animal whine, and Tormund had frozen. Had taken his hand from Jon’s hair and said his name, insistently, until Jon woke fully. There had been a shadow of fear, true fear, in Tormund’s eyes then. Jon had winced.

Yet in the light of day, it was as easy to forget those waking moments as it was to forget dreams.

But soon other things happened, things that were harder to forget.

Tormund was an affectionate man, and like all the Free Folk was not shy about touch or afraid of affection between men. He was fond of strong hugs, and Jon had learned to enjoy the feel of Tormund around him. But now, Jon often found himself nosing at Tormund’s neck, inhaling his scent. On some level, Jon realized this was a bit strange. Yet it felt so natural.

Sometimes as Jon skinned animals or helped by the cookfires, his mouth would water and a hunger would come over him. He’d feel the urge to bring prey down under his claws and fill his belly with fresh meat and hot blood.

Then, there was the incident in the woods.

Tormund had been “teaching” Jon to hunt. Of course, Jon knew how to hunt perfectly well, he’d been using a bow practically since he could walk. But Tormund insisted that Jon didn’t hunt correctly, he used all the wrong weapons, didn’t take his time, and most of all that he crashed through the forest too loudly.

Jon rolled his eyes a bit at Tormund’s distaste for his ‘southern’ methods. But he was truly curious to learn the Free Folk way of hunting. So Tormund would take Jon out to the forest, show him how to creep silently, rolling his feet on the soft ground. And then Tormund would go off alone and see if Jon could catch him by surprise. Usually this game ended with good humor, in spooking each other with pokes or shouts or laughter.

But one day, one day the light had been shining long and low, and Jon could smell the sap flowing through the trees, and something in his mind had _slipped._

He was stalking prey in the wood, as he had on half a hundred moonlit nights. It was easy, so easy, to silently slip through the trees. He found his prey quickly, ran a tongue over his teeth, waited to pounce. But then the prey had turned, and he remembered the prey was a friend. So instead he’d lightly tackled the prey to the ground, licking at his face.

A surprised shout from Tormund had snapped Jon out of it, and Jon, mortified, sat up and moved away quickly. Apologies dropped from his lips and Jon’s face burned red. Tormund had tried to laugh it off, made some lascivious joke about wanting Jon to lick him somewhere else. But again, that glimmer of fear shone behind his eyes. Jon couldn’t bare to see it.

In the face of all the fear, all the suffering Jon had seen in the past years, it hurt too much. Hurt too much to see that look in Tormund’s eyes.

So Jon tried to put it aside, ignore it, pretend nothing was wrong. But he couldn’t do so forever.

* * *

It was evening, in the tent Jon and Tormund shared. Tormund was out trying to beg some southern spices off old Hror, while Jon skinned and dressed a small boar he’d shot. Ghost was warm against his side, subtly sniffing at the viscera Jon tore from the boar.

And as the smell of blood hit the air, Jon’s nostrils quivered too. The scent of the fresh meat made his mouth water. He tore a leg from the boar, and it looked so juicy, so savory, so tender. He’d been hungry all day, had barely eaten anything.

Jon gazed at the leg, at the red juices slowly dripping from it, and took a bite. The meat was _perfection_ under his teeth. He took another bite, and another, and Ghost was licking at the blood running down Jon’s chin. Jon snapped the bone and sucked the marrow from within it, then tore off another leg and _bit again_-

The meat was torn away suddenly, and Jon barely resisted the urge to snap his jaws at the interloper.

He looked up and saw Tormund standing over him, with not just fear, but true alarm behind his eyes.

“Jon-” Tormund started, then stopped. He seemed speechless, a rare thing for Tormund.

Jon realized, suddenly, what he must look like; blood on his face, in hair beard, in his teeth. Realized, suddenly, that he’d been eating raw meat, bloody, uncooked.

Disgust crashed through him. His stomach heaved, and Tormund ran to hold his hair back as Jon vomited in a nearby bowl.

When he finished, breathing heavy, Tormund handed him a rag to clean himself with. Jon did so, constantly aware of the large man standing over him. He couldn’t meet Tormund’s eyes. He wanted to somehow break this tension.

“I must have been truly hungry, eh?”

The attempt at humor fell completely flat as Tormund just stared. Jon rubbed the back of his neck.

“Look, I - I don’t know what came over me. Likely I’m a bit tired and let my mind get away. All this travel’s hard on the body. Probably just need a good night’s rest to set myself right.”

Ghost came up to lick at Jon’s ears. The wet rasp of his tongue was a welcome distraction from the look on Tormund’s face.

Tormund sat down in front of Jon, slowly. He wrung his hands, trying to find the words.

“I didn’t say this before,” Tormund finally began, “because I thought you knew and trusted you’d get a handle on it. But it occurs to me, being raised in the south as you were, that you truly might not know.”

Jon squinted, confused, hand worrying at Ghost’s fur. “Might not know what?”

Tormund met Jon’s eyes, his gaze steady and clear.

“I’m fairly certain you’re a warg, Jon.”

Jon snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, rubbing his cheek into Ghost’s muzzle.

Tormund grabbed Jon’s hands suddenly and held tight. Jon started at the odd intensity of the gesture.

“This is important, Jon. I’ve seen this before, and you need to listen to me.”

“I’m no warg-”

“Do you dream you’re Ghost at night?”

Jon was taken aback. “How could you-”

“You growl in your sleep. Jon, listen. I’ve seen this behavior before, in untrained children who bond with animals. Behaviors bleed through. You need to find a balance before you lose yourself.”

“Lose myself?”

“Aye, I’ve seen people drift too far into animal minds before. Some never find their way back. Jon please, go talk to the wise woman, Ulelda. She’s helped wargs before. I think there’s a Hornfoot warg who’d be willing to teach you too."

"Tormund, I'm truly fine-"

"Please talk to them. Please. I don’t want to lose you to a wolf mind.”

This was too overwhelming. Jon tugged his hands from Tormund’s and ran them through his hair.

“So what then, are you saying I should spend less time with Ghost?” The thought was unimaginable. After everything, Jon needed Ghost like he needed air.

Tormund was shaking his head. “No, no, not at all. I’m just saying you need to learn how to control this magic…”

But Jon couldn’t hear him, all he saw was that glimmer of fear behind Tormund’s eyes. He felt certain, suddenly, that Tormund was afraid of him. That he too saw Jon as a monster. He’d thought he’d left the fear, the disappointment of others behind him when he joined the Free Folk. But there it was. In Tormund’s eyes. It broke him in half.

Jon was so _so_ tired; tired of magic, tired of being told by others what he was, what he had to be. Tired of always feeling _wrong_.

Jon stood. He started to walk from the tent, Ghost at his heels.

“Where are you going?”

“I need some air.”

“Jon, please, if you ignore this-”

“I’m not a damn warg!”

The words came out in a growl, harsher than Jon had meant them.

He saw the hurt in Tormund’s eyes. He nearly turned back.

But that fear was still there too, and Jon could not bear it. He turned and fled into the fresh night air.

* * *

He ran for a long while, feet crunching in the snow, Ghost running by his side. Soon the camp was but a collection of twinkling lights in the distance. He stopped and caught his breath. Watched it fog in the air.

Jon stared up at the trees, strong and tall and silent. The crisp night smelled of damp wood and melting snow. Ghost sat by Jon’s side. Together they listened to the nocturnal murmurs of the forest. Unseen animals rustled through the bushes. Bats flapped in the darkness. An owl hooted in the branches above. The forest felt beautiful, ancient, alive.

Jon crouched down by Ghost. Buried his hands, his face, in wolf fur. The wolf nuzzled at Jon’s neck. Jon nuzzled back.

Jon realized, on some level, that Tormund was right. His behavior had been odd. More than odd. He needed to learn what was happening, what this was. But he was so afraid of losing the peace, the completeness, he found by Ghost’s side.

Ghost licked at his ears, then began to bound through the snow, pulling at Jon’s sleeves. Jon grinned a little and jumped at him. They wrestled and rolled in the cold for a long while, and Jon felt cheered, felt comforted.

Eventually Jon sat up. Breathed out. Looked towards the twinkling lights of the camp.

He needed to go back. Talk to Tormund. He needed to fix this. He couldn’t live with fear behind Tormund’s eyes.

Jon sighed and stood and walked back to camp, Ghost padding along beside him.

* * *

When he reached his tent, Jon braced himself before opening the flap. Tormund was still sitting inside, worrying at something with his hands.

He stood when Jon entered, his expression open and kind. Looking at him, Jon felt horribly guilty for storming from the tent like a child.

“I’m sorry I-”

“Are you alri-”

They both started, then stopped. Jon looked down.

“I’m sorry,” he began. “For leaving. You’re right, I haven’t been acting completely myself. I’ll talk to the wise woman.”

Tormund’s shoulders relaxed. “Good,” he said quietly. “Good.”

Jon huffed out a depressed little laugh. “After all, don’t want to become even more a monster. Wouldn’t want you to keep being afraid of me.”

This was said with the cadence of a joke, but it wasn’t terribly funny.

Tormund walked over to him, expression pained, and took Jon’s face in his hands.

“Is that what you think? That I’m afraid of you?”

Jon looked down.

“I’m afraid _for_ you, little crow. You’ve been so quiet, and I know your dreams are troubled. I want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

Jon was still afraid to meet Tormund’s eyes. Afraid of what he’d see there.

“So you don’t think me a monster, then?”

“Jon. Look at me.”

Jon did, dragged his eyes upwards. Tormund’s eyes were warm.

Tormund’s arms circled around Jon in a tight, comforting, _perfect_ embrace.

“You’re not a monster, little crow. You’re not.”

Jon relaxed into Tormund, into the feel of him, the smell of him.

Soon, they were lying curled on the ground. Tormund stroked one hand through Jon’s hair, another through Ghost’s fur. It felt right. Jon wondered when he’d become so comfortable with this, with touch, with affection.

“You know I care for both you and Ghost,” Tormund said quietly. “I would never take him from you.”

“I know.”

“I can tell it’s been difficult for you, to speak of what happened in the south. I’m glad you have Ghost. He’s a good friend.”

“He’s not just a friend,” Jon whispered. “Ghost is...I don’t know how to describe it.”

Jon shifted slightly, tilted his chin so he could look Tormund in the eye.

“Ghost is...part of me. Does that make sense?”

Tormund nodded. He chuckled lightly. “And to think earlier you claimed you weren’t a warg.”

“Shut up,” Jon huffed with a small grin. “Putting that label on it still sounds foolish. We’re not some beast from an old story.”

“You’ve spent a third of your life fighting the dead, and you think wargs sound foolish?”

“Aye, I think me being some storybook magical creature is a bit ridiculous.”

“Well, I don’t. It’s a gift from the gods. And you and that great wolf of yours have always been attached at the hip.”

Jon laughed quietly, and buried his face in Tormund’s chest. Ghost snuffled and curled closer.

“You know,” Tormund’s voice rumbled softly, “if you ever do want to speak about what happened in the south, I’m here. I’ll listen.”

Jon nodded. “I know. I don’t think I’m quite ready yet. But I know.”

“Good. I’m here for you, Jon.”

Tormund carded a hand through Jon’s hair. Jon hummed into Tormund’s chest, and Tormund held him closer.


	2. Chapter 2

Learning to be a warg was more difficult than Jon expected.

It was so easy to find Ghost in his dreams, especially now that he knew what he was. Jon cherished his nights running through the forest in a wolf mind, loved the stillness of a winter wood and fur ruffling at his back.

But trying to enter Ghost at will, in daylight, felt impossible.

Ulelda, the wise woman, was patient, if firm. She told Jon how to calm his breathing, quiet his mind, find a peace within himself. And Jon did feel more even, sitting on the floor of her tent, listening to the soothing sound of her voice as she guided him. But he had no idea how to find Ghost, no idea how to slip into Ghost’s mind.

A warg from the surviving Hornfoots, Eira, had agreed to help Jon too. Her animal was a cheery dark footed fox that often trailed by her side. The smaller beast was wary of Ghost at first, but they soon settled into a comfortable understanding with each other. And Jon grew to like Eira quickly.

She was a mother with three surviving children, all of whom she taught alongside Jon. More often than not, these sessions turned into Eira and Jon playing with the children, or trying to calm them down when they became overexcited. But occasionally there was learning involved. It did wound Jon’s pride a bit that the children took to warging with such ease while he struggled. But Eira assured him this was natural.

“It’s easier, when you’re young. You’re more open to the idea of it.” She said this one evening as they straightened up after a lesson. The children were bouncing around with the rabbits they trained in, making messes as quickly as Jon could clean them.

Jon helped Eira collect some scattered roots into a pot. “Do you think it’s too late for me then?”

“No,” she responded, picking one her children up and shifting them to her hip. “I’ve known many that were unable to bond properly because of obstacles in life, and still found their way to it. It's fairly common story these days.”

Eira’s eyes grew a bit sad then, and she ruffled her daughter’s hair.

“Or it was, before we lost so many.”

Jon felt an ache in his chest. He reached out to put a comforting hand to Eira’s shoulder. Then one of her sons squealed and toppled over the basket of roots, breaking the moment.

“Ikka, I swear to the gods, pick that up right now, or there’ll be no story for you tonight!”

* * *

Jon eventually found a bit of balance. He stopped eating raw meat or licking Tormund at odd times. He did often still feel a bit, well, wolfish. Still enjoyed burying his nose in Tormund’s neck and savoring the scent. But apparently that was normal among wargs. Good even.

Yet still, he was unable to pull his mind into Ghost while awake. Jon still felt close to Ghost, still felt like they were one in the same. They still ran together, played together, hunted together. But Jon somehow couldn’t make that final connection.

He spent hours centering himself with Ulelda, spent hours learning from Eira. He struggled. But he enjoyed the company, the lessons, the new knowledge of what being a warg _meant._

Jon learned their magic was old as the Children, respected, cherished. It was connected to the forest, to the weirwoods, to the gods. A warg was blessed, blessed with connection to nature, blessed with a second skin to serve their clan.

He’d bring these lessons back to Tormund at night, softly speaking what he’d learned as he played with the light hairs on Tormund’s chest.

“Did you know that most clans believe that the animal you bond with says something about who you are?”

Tormund hummed, a low rumbling sound. “I do remember my mother mentioning something of that when I was a babe. Though I could never remember which animal meant what.”

Jon laughed lightly. “Do you want me to refresh your memory?”

“Aye, I do love a good tale before bed.”

“Well,” Jon continued softly, “If a deer chooses you, it means you’re graceful and tender. Fox skinchangers are playful. Birds are said to be wise-”

“That fits that odd brother of yours, but not some other birds I’ve known.”

Jon shifted, uncomfortable thinking on the past. “Orell?”

“No, I was thinking of this Thenn owl I once met. Blindingly stupid, couldn’t even tell east from west. And he hated my stories.”

“Oh, so anyone who hates your tall tales is stupid?”

“Aye, they’ve nothing between their ears.”

Jon smiled into Tormund’s neck, resting a moment.

“What’s a wolf mean?”

Jon’s eyes drifted across the tent, meeting Ghost’s gaze as he gnawed on a bone.

“Loyalty.”

Tormund stroked Jon’s cheekbone with his thumb.

“Well, that’s you. I’ve never met a man so committed to protecting his own.”

Jon met Tormund’s eyes, saw heat there, and they came together in a kiss.

This was still new to Jon, kissing Tormund, being with Tormund. Jon felt drunk on it, on the feel of him, the smell of him. A low, pleased growl escaped his throat.

* * *

Despite his lack of progress, Jon still kept going to Ulelda, to Eira.

Ulelda would tell him about wargs she had met in the past, of the world beyond the Wall of her youth, the world they were trying to rebuild.

Eira would tell stories of great wargs to her children, and Jon would often sit with them and listen. It made him feel a bit of a babe, but it was exciting to learn the history of what he was. Beyond the Wall, wargs were not the monsters of Old Nan’s tales. In Eira's tales, they were warriors, fighters, heroes.

“Have you ever heard of the Warg King?” Jon asked Tormund over a cookfire one evening.

“Aye,” Tormund replied, tossing some meat to Ghost. Jon’s mouth watered a bit at the smell of it, but he calmed himself as Ulelda had taught him.

“He was a King-Beyond-the-Wall, weren’t he?” Tormund continued. “Got a whole bunch of wargs together and marched on the south?”

Jon nodded. “Eira told the tale today. He marched on Winterfell with a hundred thousand wargs gifted in the old magics. But Stark drove him back, killed his sons, stole his daughters as prizes.”

Tormund huffed. “A dark tale.”

“Yes, Eira edited some bits for the children, but she told it to me true after they were sent to bed.”

Jon was silent for several moments, eyes fixed to the onion he was cutting.

“If you’re worried about your ancestor being some villain, I wouldn’t dwell on it,” came Tormund’s reassuring voice. “We all have asshole ancestors.”

“It’s not that,” Jon said softly. “It’s just...I was thinking on it. And if that tale is true, I’m likely a result of it. The Stark in the story took the warg daughters as war prizes and had children with them. They continued the line, kept passing on the gift. It’s possible that’s why I am what I am.”

Jon sighed again, but Tormund stayed silent to let him speak his piece.

“I’d never heard that story before today. Old Nan had a story about a monstrous warg who tried to seize Winterfell, though in her version he was from Sea Dragon Point. But there was nothing about how the Starks bore warg children. Nothing about how this was something we carried in us.”

Jon stopped, ran a fretful hand through his curls.

“I never learned it was a gift. The skinchangers in our stories were monsters. But mostly I didn’t even know wargs were real. And if I’d known-”

He stopped, suddenly. Tormund gestured, prompted him to go on.

“If I’d known, I could have learned to control it earlier. Could have used it, done things different. Prevented the worst. Maybe I could have even helped Bran learn, stopped him from becoming so...whatever he is now.”

Jon choked a bit on the last words, thinking of the blank lifeless stare, so unlike the little brother he’d grown up with. Thinking on that last, horrible sentence that had left Bran’s mouth, cold and careful words that still haunted him. _You were exactly where you were supposed to be._

An arm circled Jon’s shoulders, and Tormund drew him into an embrace.

“It’s no use rewriting the past, little crow. Thinking on all the ways we could have done things different is a route to madness.”

Jon nodded into Tormund’s shoulder. “Aye, I know.”

“And as for your brother, I don’t know if what he is now is good or bad. But I do know his journey was his own, and you can’t take the weight of it onto your shoulders.”

Jon breathed out. “I just wish I would have known.”

“Aye, it’s a shame you didn’t. Warging can be a beautiful thing, and you should have reveled in it when you were young. But you’ll learn quick enough here. You have good teachers. You southerners might say your “North” remembers. But in the true north, we remember things only the First Men knew.”

* * *

Jon kept working, kept trying. And he did make some progress. Sometimes, after hours of concentration, he could enter Ghost while awake. But the connection would flicker, sputter quickly. Jon worked for _months_, as the Free Folk crossed the Haunted Forest, as they helped clans settle, as winter began to thaw.

And soon, the Hornfoots were splitting off. Soon it was time to say goodbye to Eira.

Jon was oddly emotional when they parted ways. He’d only known Eira a few short months, but she’d been a teacher, a mentor, a friend. He ruffled her children’s hair, and gave her a long embrace before leaving.

“We’ll come visit often,” she’d promised as she left. “The Free Folk need to stick together these days.”

“Aye, we do,” Jon said, still marveling a bit that this is what he was now. _Free_. “I’ll have treats ready for those little terrors of yours.”

Eira laughed a little.

“I’m glad to know you, Jon,” she said. “Glad we met each other. There are so few wargs left. I remember in Mance’s army there were hundreds of us and now…”

Her eyes grew sad. She put a hand to Jon’s arm.

“I’m glad you’re here. To help carry this on.”

* * *

Jon and Tormund and their new clan settled by the Antler River, in a spot so lovely it seemed pulled from a dream. Jon and Ghost would run up and down the riverbank, would play in the snowdrifts that collected by the trees. Tormund would join in, laughing all the while.

Ulelda had settled with their clan, and Jon still went to her frequently. He was determined to learn, determined to find the right space in Ghost’s mind. It felt important now. He was a carrier of something precious to the true north, something that had nearly been wiped from the land. He wanted to help it live again, help bring a bit of that old world beyond the Wall back.

Furthermore, Ulelda was excellent company. Jon quickly learned he could go to her not just to learn warging, but to learn and speak on any number of things. And she was always willing to help him.

They tried many different methods together. She continued to help him meditate, sometimes with the aid of powders and smokes that made Jon's mind bend and twist in unusual ways. She inked wolf runes into Jon’s skin. She had him sleep at the base of a weirwood tree. Jon only tried that once. The dreams he’d had there, dreams of staring at his own dead body as it grew paler and colder, terrified him. Chased speech from him for days.

Nothing seemed to truly work. Jon was beginning to feel he simply was too old, had let this part of himself sleep for too long. He’d learned to be happy with the dreams, with the perfect peaceful companionship he found with Ghost.

But then the clan came into contact with some Nightrunners who’d survived beyond the Wall, and another solution presented itself.

The group of survivors had been small, only sixteen people. The Antler River clan welcomed them with open arms, shared food, shared stories. And three days after they’d arrived, Ulelda approached Jon in the home he shared with Tormund.

* * *

“The Nightrunners have a wise woman with them,” she’d said to them over a cup of tea, “and she reminded me of an old ritual some clans used to use, to help a warg along. Fully open them to the connection. Clear out any...outside interference.”

Jon and Tormund looked at each other, surprised. Jon brought his eyes back to Ulelda.

“You think some 'outside interference' is keeping me from warging properly?”

“Boy, you’ve made many enemies and been exposed to some of the deepest magics in the world several times over. It’s more than possible.”

Jon ran a hand over the back of his neck. Tormund put a hand on his knee.

“But this ritual should clear that all away. However, it can be a bit intense if I recall.”

“How intense?” Tormund asked, concerned.

“Well, it can be a bit hard for some to find their way back from the animal. But you and Ghost are close enough that I don’t think he’ll give you a hard time. Still, I can go over the ritual with you, step by step. See how you feel about it.”

Jon felt oddly conflicted. He didn’t want to get lost in a wolf mind, as Tormund had feared so many months ago. He didn’t want to hurt Tormund, not in any way. And even now, he was wary of magic and ritual.

But he wanted so badly to explore this, find this part of himself that felt missing.

“You should do it,” Tormund said softly.

Jon looked at him, took Tormund’s large hand in his own.

“I don’t want to make you worry-”

“I’d be more worried if you didn’t see this through, little wolf. I can tell you want to do this.”

Tormund brushed a curl from Jon’s face. His eyes were fond.

“And I’ve got faith in you,” he continued. “You’ve been training so hard. And I know you’ll always find your way back to those that love you.”

Jon dropped his head, gently brought their interlocked hands up to kiss Tormund’s knuckles.

“Aye,” he whispered. “I will. I promise.”

He turned to Ulelda.

“I want to hear about the ritual. I want to try.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's some weird ritual blood and old god sacrifice type stuff in this chapter! Not too much Tormund, but I promise I'll make up for that next chapter.

A winter white moon rose in the sky, casting the dense forest in rich silvery light. Swirling mist blanketed the snow. Inky shadows hung long and low between the trees.

Jon sat in a crude tent. He stared at the winter world through a torn gap in the hide.

There was no fire. His skin was bare. He tried not to shiver in the cold.

Unlike many magic users Jon had met, mystery wasn’t Ulelda’s way. She had been very direct about what the ritual would involve, what it would feel like. She’d explained everything, and Jon had thought himself ready.

But the concept of sitting in a freezing tent naked was very different from the reality of it.

And there were other parts of this ritual Jon was looking forward to _much_ less. He swallowed and tried not to feel nauseous. Ulelda had explained that sacrifice was necessary, but it sounded deeply unpleasant.

On top of that, Jon still felt doubt. He know he shouldn’t. He’d seen what magic could do. Had watched it raise the icy dead, had felt it awaken him to a second life, had known the awful power of dragonfire breathing beneath him. And of course, now he walked in wolf skin near every night.

But still, something about ancient rituals and calling upon the gods felt a bit disconnected from the known, from the real. Maester Luwin would laugh himself silly if he saw Jon now, naked and about to perform magic in the dead of night.

He hoped he wasn’t about to act like an animal for nothing.

Jon sighed and pushed that from his mind. With trembling fingers picked up the bowl Ulelda had prepared for him. A paste of mushrooms and weirwood sap. It looked like thick, congealed blood. Jon apparently had to eat this for the magic to work. He sniffed the bowl and gagged a bit.

Jon wished he could at least use a spoon. But Ulelda had been insistent even that simple act could spoil the ritual.

He scooped the dripping substance into his hands. He licked it from his palms, his fingers, and tried not to feel ridiculous.

As his tongue lapped at the thick paste, gradually doubt began to slip away. Become something else.

This something in Jon’s mind filled him, made him both soft and sharp at the edges. It trickled in slowly, like drops filling a bucket one by one. An odd feeling. Wild, unnameable.

Jon sucked at his nails and licked at his wrists and found dregs clinging to the bottom of the bowl. Soon enough he finished and breathed in the cold air around him.

He stood, carefully. Walked from the tent, bare feet crunching in the snow. Sat down in the midst of the forest and gazed worshipful at the night.

He no longer felt the cold.

The trees stood, tall and strong and silent, like columns in a temple to the ancient gods.

Tormund had once said that the wind in the leaves was the gods speaking, answering prayers. Jon closed his eyes and listened to them whisper.

He sat and breathed in the pines and dirt and sap. Felt branches growing towards the stars, roots digging into the earth.

How long he sat, he couldn’t say. Time was an irrelevant thing.

Quietly, in the darkness, he heard a human noise. Footsteps, coming rhymically.

An old woman stood in front of him. Jon couldn’t find her name.

_“Käntifil ävil taamil.”_ Her voice cut deep into his bones. _“Passajamanal onola?”_

The words were harsh and primal, drawn from frost in the air.

This was not the common tongue, nor the Antler River language. Jon had never experienced these words, never heard them spoken at hunts or over cookfires.

Yet he knew the answer as he knew his own name.

_“Vääth.”_ The word scraped up his throat, across his tongue.

_“Gyvidhe.”_ She turned and walked into the trees. Jon stood and followed her into the moonlight.

* * *

Jon felt the clearing before he saw it.

Great stones rose in circles and spirals, dancing cross the wood. Jon and his companion wove through them, made their way to the center where a grand weirwood stood.

The branches greeted him, waving. Blood red leaves reached out to touch his shoulders.

Ghost sat between the roots, eyes steady as the stars.

Jon fell to his knees as the wild unnameable feeling overcame him, thrummed in his veins. Before it had dripped in drop by drop, but now it crashed through him like a waterfall. He choked on the vicious joy of it.

Ghost walked to him, slowly, paws crunching over ice and leaves. Jon reached for him. Fur met skin, twined together. Both wolf and man sang.

Distantly, Jon could hear a woman chanting, pleading to the gods of this land.

_Rasha. Yydha. Skagä. Erina._

Jon and Ghost breathed in time, hearts beating as one. That unnameable feeling flowed through them like the tide, wrapping around them, folding them together.

Words came to them from the wind, sank into their skin. Jon possessed a human tongue, so he spoke for man and wolf as they shared whispered breath.

_Hööthäl vathe, hööthär vathe. Hööthäl vathe, hööthär vathe._

It was magic, the feeling. Magic deeper than either had ever experienced. Deeper than walls and dragons and ravens, for this was truly _theirs_.

They could feel it moving, waving through the stones, through the air, through the weirwood. It was like drunken joy, like satisfaction after eating a kill, like bloodlust as something _someone_ died at your hand.

It was beautiful, terrible, and they felt a deep dire yearning to be closer, _closer._

_Hööthäl vathe, hööthär vathe. Hööthäl vathe, hööthär vathe._

Weirwood roots reached into them and they saw a thousand wargs join themselves in the spot where they sat. Saw past and future and joy and sorrow. Saw giants and mammoths and cruel creatures of ice. Saw a raven that spied, and they growled and snapped till it took flight far away. For this time was theirs, and theirs alone.

_Hööthäl vathe, hööthär vathe. Hööthäl vathe, hööthär vathe._

The man surfaced a bit and felt lost suddenly, unraveled, afraid. Felt teeth and claws and the wild swallowing him whole.

But he remembered hair kissed by fire and blue eyes like storms and arms that chased terrors away. They gave him peace. And he found the wolf’s red eyes, familiar eyes, and he knew he was safe. They were safe.

Man and wolf were meant for this. Other magics had tried to claim them, divide them, but now they were together and home home home.

_Kir ar, jen ägel. Kir ar, jen ägel._

Magic seared through their bones and hummed over their fur. It vibrated and split them and sewed them back together.

Man and wolf were the same now. Wrapped and tangled and joined as one. There was fire running through their veins and blood in their mouths.

A twig snapped and two heads turned. A doe entered the cleaning and lay at the roots of the weirwood. It stared at them without fear. The smell of it stung their nose. Hunger rose sharp within them. They could hear the drum of a steady beating heart. And they knew what this was.

A sacrifice.

Growls built within them, and they leapt and tore with mouths and claws and fingers, until teeth found meat and marrow and they drank deep.

Viscera sank into roots and the magic slowly settled. A lazy, satisfied peace came over the clearing.

_Gondoh._

They slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation stuff! This is another David Peterson language; the one he used for Thor 2. (except for the word for stone, which I changed a bit to fit cannon.)
> 
> Käntifil ävil taamil. Passajamanal onola? - All is ready. You've prepared yourself?
> 
> Vääth - Yes
> 
> Gyvidhe - Good.
> 
> Rasha. Yydha. Skagä. Erina. - To the sky. To the waves. To the stones. To the trees.
> 
> Hööthäl vathe, hööthär vathe. - You breathe, I breathe.
> 
> Kir ar, Jen ägel - I am, we are.
> 
> Gondoh. - Enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Sunlight slipped through the trees and played upon the ground. Wolf and man stirred slowly, still half caught in the pull of dreams.

They tried to open their eyes, squinted in the too bright morning light. The world looked grey but for bright splashes of scattered red.

Blood and bone were soaked upon fur and skin and snow. The taste of it lingered heavily on their tongues.

The man knew he should feel disturbed, his skin covered in viscera. He ached down to his bones, his lungs burned with each breath, his skin tingled and itched.

Yet he felt at peace in the forest. Was it the peace of the Old Gods, or a simpler peace that all beasts feel in nature?

He didn’t know. He didn’t need to name it.

Pine and oak and weirwood drifted through the air, and he filled his lungs with their scent.

It was cold, for he had no fur of his own. Ghost came to him, curled around him, and they shared warmth like littermates.

The sun rose. Birds sounded in the trees. The leaves of the weirwood stirred softly in the wind.

Soon enough, they heard light footsteps on the ground, and the scent of men filled the clearing.

There were two of them, a woman and a man. The first instinct was to growl and bare teeth and warn these interlopers away, but a familiar scent calmed them.

A large ginger man with strong hands. A friend. He was a friend. He was safety, he was _home._

They came with gentle hands and soothing touches, draping bear skin across his shoulders and helping him to two feet.

They half carried him on shaking legs to a tent of elkhide, sat him by a fire, and began to clean his skin.

The wolf stayed close, always close, twined around the man's legs and ankles and feet.

Once the wolf was forced too far away, and wolf and man whined in time with each other, still too tangled in each other’s thoughts to bare the separation.

Their companions backed away. They rushed back to each other, fur met skin, and they curled together, relieved.

Eventually, the cleaning resumed, gentle wet cloths being dragged over skin.

The man gradually became aware that words were being said around him, to him. He needed to respond, say something. Let them know he was still here.

He met blue eyes, tugged on a strand of fire hair, and struggled to make himself understood.

“Kir - kir…”

The words would not come, his tongue lolled limply in his mouth.

“Kir-”

Nothing. He whined again in irritation.

There was alarm, concern in those blue eyes now, but the other voice, the older woman, hushed and soothed. She fondly tucked a dark curl behind his ear, and he leaned into the small touch.

“You’re still in it, give yourself time. _Nol iovipsil._”

Many of these words were lost on the man, but the last ones struck a chord deep within him. He yawned, and gentle hands laid him down on a bed of fur and hide.

He felt wolf warmth curl beside him, then sank into dreams of pine and prey.

* * *

When Jon _yes that's my name_ woke next, he felt a bit more himself, a bit more human. His mind was still slowly detangling wolf from man, but Jon was more present than he had been before sleep.

Tormund _Tormund yes this was Tormund_ was sitting by his side, working at something with his hands. Jon wanted to call out, but words still seemed difficult.

He reached out and tugged on Tormund’s boots.

The big man responded immediately, crouching down beside Jon and stroking his face. Jon put his hand over Tormund’s and felt the strength there.

Tormund was speaking. Jon managed to catch most of the words. “ - you, Jon. How are you feeling?”

Jon worked his tongue, tried to force it to form words. “Good,” he finally managed.

The sheer relief on Tormund’s face when Jon spoke was blinding. “Excellent. You get enough rest?”

He drew Tormund’s hand towards his nose, inhaled his strong bearish scent.

Jon closed his eyes. Breathed deep. Felt the steady soothing pulse beating at Tormund’s wrists.

Finally, Jon nodded. “Aye.”

He opened his eyes. Tormund’s smile was warm.

“Well then, let’s get some proper food into you.”

Tormund helped Jon sit up, then took a bowl from Ulelda. Jon hadn’t even noticed she’d been standing in the corner.

The bowl was hot, steaming. The scent of rich meat caught Jon’s nose. His mouth watered.

He snatched the bowl when it was offered and tore into the food inside. He bit and ripped and savored the flesh under his teeth. The taste was raw and fresh and perfect.

Soon, too soon, the bowl was empty. Jon’s tongue lapped at the sides, at the flecks of fat and skin left behind.

He sat back, satisfied, slowly feeling some strength returning. Ghost padded over and licked at the mess on the sides of his mouth.

Jon became aware of eyes on him. He brought his head up and saw Tormund, his brow furrowed, a quiet alarm back on his face.

He looked, slowly, between Ulelda and Tormund. Worried suddenly that something had gone wrong with the ritual. That he wasn’t as human as he should be.

Jon caught Ulelda’s gaze, tried to speak.

“I’m -” he began, then stopped, struggling. The words were in his mind, but it was so hard to form them. “I should - I should be more...me?”

Ulelda laughed kindly, smiled at him. She crouched down beside Jon, ruffled his hair.

“We spoke about this, remember? The Nightrunners told me there were people who performed this ritual who couldn’t talk for a week. It hasn’t even been a full day, and you’re already worrying at me.”

Jon tried to catch all her words, but they slipped and twisted through the air so quickly. Ulelda saw his confusion, slowed down.

“You’ll be fine soon. I promise.”

He nodded, relaxed. With Tormund and Ghost at his side, he believed it.

Ulelda stood to stoke the fire, giving Tormund a meaningful look as she passed him.

Tormund, however, had his eyes fixed on Jon.

He sat next to Jon heavily on the ground, ran an anxious hand through his ginger hair. Jon shifted slightly, bumped his head to Tormund’s shoulder in a silent question. The large man sighed, shifted, put his arm around Jon’s shoulders.

Jon nosed at Tormund’s neck and drew comfort from his scent. There was tension coiled in Tormund’s shoulders, but as Jon lay against him and listened to his heartbeat, Tormund slowly relaxed underneath him.

* * *

Jon spent the next few days in that tent in the woods, slowly healing, adjusting, coming back to himself. Ulelda seemed encouraged, proud of his progress. Tormund mostly just seemed concerned, but never voiced it. Instead he was a comforting, supporting presence at Jon’s side.

By the end of the first day, Jon was speaking in full sentences again. By the second, he was walking on his own.

Soon he felt not just strong, but stronger than he had in a long time. As if he’d finally found something he’d not known he was missing.

On the fourth morning, Ulelda wanted to test him. See if he could finally connect with Ghost properly. So they walked to the wood and sat among tree roots. Jon felt settled in the earthen scents around him.

Slipping from his skin was easy as breathing, and Jon ran on four legs in thick fur and felt life course through his veins. He charged and stalked and hunted a long while before he had his fill.

When he came back to himself, Ulelda was smiling, Tormund looked tentatively proud, and Jon knew for certain the ritual had worked.

That evening, as Ulelda collected winter berries outside, Jon found himself staring at Tormund. He was speaking, telling some story, waving his hands around for emphasis. Jon let the sound of Tormund’s words rush over him as he took in those broad shoulders, those strong arms.

An edge of wildness rose in Jon, and suddenly he _wanted._

A low growl built in his throat. Tormund stopped abruptly and stared.

“You alright, Jon?”

Jon didn’t answer. Instead he stalked towards Tormund, pressed close. Stroked a hand up Tormund’s back.

He smiled, a wolf’s smile, all dangerous edges and sharp teeth.

Jon brought his mouth to the shell of Tormund’s ear. Again, he growled.

Tormund moaned low. The sound rumbled through him.

He captured Tormund in a kiss, and reveled in the drag of Tormund’s lips, his teeth. The harsh rasp of his beard and the wet muscled heat of his tongue.

Jon’s heart was pounding. He felt he would burst from his own skin, awash in the musky scent of the man beside him.

Then suddenly, Tormund pulled back, and the cold returned.

“Not - not,” the big man gasped out, breathing hard. “Not tonight, little wolf.”

Jon stopped, pulled back, tried to get himself back under control.

Tormund bit at his lips. His eyes were huge, pupils blown.

“I just - I want to be sure you’re you in there. I don’t want to take advantage before you’re well again.”

“I’m me. I promise, I’m me,” Jon breathed, voice low.

Tormund just kept staring, still catching his breath. He finally tore his gaze away.

“Just...give yourself a few days little wolf.”

* * *

Jon waited a few days.

They seemed torturously slow.

On one hand, he was enjoying the new ease with which he stepped into Ghost’s mind. It felt easy now to journey in wolf skin, like a heavy stone he never knew existed had been lifted from his shoulders. He celebrated it, loved to hunt and chase and run.

But having Tormund there, just out of his reach, was _agony_.

Jon had approached him a few times, tried to kiss him or hold him, but Tormund would back away with lowered eyes.

Something was wrong.

They still talked, still laughed. And Tormund had truly taken to playing games with Jon while he warged into Ghost. It felt ridiculous, sometimes, playing fetch with Tormund. Jon still enjoyed it.

Yet despite the fun, despite the care and support Tormund gave him, Jon felt like Tormund still looked at him sideways. Was hesitant, careful. He seemed to be searching, always searching, for something wrong, something missing. As if he’d turn to Jon and find a stranger staring through his eyes.

So Jon tried to be as himself as possible. He talked about his childhood, about the things they’d faced together. He sparred with Tormund and japed with him and shared his food, eating politely and cleanly as he could manage. And Tormund seemed reassured.

Mostly.

* * *

Finally, Ulelda declared Jon ready to return to the main camp. But after a quick whisper from Jon and a knowing conversation, she suddenly stated she had to return to the clan one night early.

“It’s an emergency, but I’m sure you two can pack the camp up without me. I look forward to seeing you at home tomorrow eve.”

Tormund stared after her as she hiked home, suspicious.

“How exactly did she learn of his mysterious emergency?”

“Come now Tormund. Who are we to ask questions of a woman who communes with the gods?”

“You asked her to leave us for the night, didn’t you?”

Jon blushed. Tormund’s accusing stare was intense.

He folded underneath it immediately.

“Yes, yes I did.”

Tormund grumbled.

“Jon -”

“Before you get angry, can I tell you my reasoning?”

Tormund’s eyes still held light suspicion, but he nodded.

“It isn’t what you think. Or...it can be if you want. But mostly I just felt we should talk.”

“And what do we need to talk about?”

Jon sighed, sat by Tormund’s side.

“I just want to reassure you that I’m fine.”

Tormund dropped his eyes.

“I know that, Jon. Ulelda told me plenty of times not to worry over you.”

“You didn’t think to ask me yourself?”

“A few days ago you were speaking primarily in whines and growls. I wasn’t sure if you’d be capable of answering.”

“I’ve been talking normally for almost a week now, Tormund.”

Tormund was staring at his knees, picking at the furs there. Finally, after a long moment, he spoke, his voice quiet.

“You didn’t recognize me, when you woke in the forest.”

He dragged his eyes up to meet Jon’s. He almost flinched at the fear in them.

Tormund cleared his throat. Continued.

“We went to find you, trekked through the woods. We walked so long, I was worried we’d lost the spot. Suddenly there you were, lying in the snow, covered in blood. And then you looked up at me like you’d never seen me before. And for a moment I thought - I thought that was it. I thought you were fully gone.”

Tormund wiped a hand over his face, lingering too long over his eyes.

“I never wanted this to happen, I never wanted you to get lost-”

Jon rushed to him suddenly, took Tormund’s hands in his own.

“I’m not lost. I promise you, I’m right here.”

Tormund nodded, but he wouldn’t meet Jon’s eyes.

Jon sighed.

He brushed a light hand under Tormund’s chin, guided the larger man’s gaze towards his own.

“Tormund,” he said softly. “I know you’ve seen wargs loose themselves and go mad in the past. But I won’t. I’m fine.”

Tormund’s eyes were still lowered. “I know,” he said quietly. Unsure.

Jon brought a hand into Tormund’s hair.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t know you when I first awoke.”

“It wasn’t your-”

“Nevertheless, I am sorry.” He rubbed his thumbs over Tormund’s knuckles in soothing circles.

They sat in silence, breathing in time, for a long while.

“You know,” Jon said eventually, his breath fogging a bit in the air. “That first morning, even though I was a bit...not human-”

Tormund snorted, “A bit? At one point I think you were smelling my crotch.”

“Alright, I was acting like an animal, no need to rub it in.”

Tormund laughed quietly. Jon smiled at the sound.

“Anyway, even though I was acting like an animal, even though I felt like an animal, even though I didn’t recognize what you looked like when you came to get me...I still knew you. Maybe not consciously but I knew your scent. It calmed me down. I remember thinking, this man’s a friend. I’m safe around him. He smells like home.”

Tormund ducked his head again. Jon tucked stray ginger hairs behind his ears.

“I know that ever since I started learning more about myself as a warg, you’ve been afraid for me. Afraid I’ll get lost in it. But I won’t. Because you’re here. And you guide me home every time.”

Tormund dragged his eyes up to Jon’s. Clear, blue, shining with emotion.

Jon had to catch his breath.

“I know that sometimes I am a bit wolfish now. That sometimes I sniff at your neck or eat without manners or growl at odd moments. But in here,” Jon pressed their clasped hands over his heart. “In here I’m the same. In here I’m yours. And there’s no magic in this world that could change that.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. Tormund took his hands from Jon’s. For a split second, Jon worried he had said something wrong, but then there were strong hands under his jaw and a warm mouth enveloping his in a powerful kiss that had him gasping for breath.

Tormund’s hands, Tormund’s mouth, Tormund’s scent was everywhere, and Jon felt drunk on it, drunk on the feeling of this man beside him, around him, within him.

They broke apart for a moment, found air. They brought their foreheads together, shared the same breath.

“I love you, little wolf,” Tormund finally whispered low.

Jon smiled, “Aye, and I love you, you ridiculous old bear.”

Tormund cuffed him lightly on the back of the head, and Jon laughed. He bought his check to Tormund’s rubbed against it gently. Slowly stroked a hand up and down Tormund’s spine.

Tormund’s eyes were dark, hooded, and Jon suddenly felt flooded with adrenaline and anticipation and a thousand feelings he couldn’t name.

A low whimper escaped Jon’s throat.

They came together again, with kisses deep and desperate, tearing the clothes from each other’s bodies. Jon nipped at Tormund’s shoulders and licked the line of his throat and traced his tongue down Tormund’s hips.

And the rest of the night was warmth and pleasure and perfection.

* * *

Jon’s skill as a warg would soon become known. He’d be seen as a skilled hunter, as a warrior who entered battle as more wolf than man. Stories would be told, throughout the lands beyond the Wall, of the White Wolf.

But for now, Jon was mainly happy to let the scent of Tormund wash over him. To use the magic he’d been gifted to feel safe, sure, _home_.


End file.
